


In Hot Water

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bath Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, platonic bath sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's hypothermia treatment might be a bit unconventional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Hot Water

**Author's Note:**

> Un-betaed, so proceed at your own risk. :)
> 
> Inspired by [this Tumblr post](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com/post/140886870674/iamjohnlocked4life-usuallysubtextual).

“Get upstairs,” John shouted, shoving Sherlock and his sopping coat. “And stop dripping in Mrs. Hudson’s front hall.”

“Really, John,” Sherlock said. He did his best to sound detached and calm, but the quaver in his voice belied the truth. “There’s no need to be so dramatic.”

“There isn’t?” John gave another shove, forcing Sherlock up the next step. “You jumped in the bloody Thames in bloody January!”

“Well, you didn’t have to come in after me, did you?”

“Did I?” John scoffed, peeling off his own saturated coat. “What was I supposed to do? Watch you execute the full Ophelia?”

Sherlock echoed his own scoff. “My coat wasn’t that heavy.”

“You sure about that?” John whipped the coat down Sherlock’s arms, weighing it in both arms. “Feels pretty heavy to me, and”--he sniffed it--”hoo! It stinks. I hope you have a good dry cleaner, because you’re paying for my coat as well.”

A visible shiver ran from Sherlock’s neck all the way down to his squishy shoes. “For God’s sake, Jo--”

“Don’t you for God’s sake me.” John pointed to Sherlock and then the kitchen. “You, get in there and make us some tea and then get out of your clothes. I’m running us a bath.”

“Us?”

John spun, already halfway down the hall. “Yes, us. I’m not freezing to death so you can have the tub to yourself.”

“Once I put on some dry clothes, I’ll be fine.”

John paused just outside the bathroom door, his hand already on the knob. He let out a harsh breath and peered at Sherlock’s dripping body. “Remind me. Which one of us is the doctor?”

Sherlock huffed. “You. As you so love to remind me. I suppose you’ll refresh my memory of your military status as well.”

“Since we’re on the subject, yes. Now do what I asked before I come over there and make you.”

With that, John barged into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, cutting off whatever fresh protest Sherlock had at the ready. God, even after all these years, he could not understand how such a genius could be such an idiot. What? Was he going to let himself die of hypothermia just to prove a point?

Berk.

John plugged the tub, turning the water as hot as it would go, and suppressed his own shiver. He knew he was cold; he knew he was damn cold, but even so, he couldn’t tell just how much of the shaking was low body temperature and how much was sheer, seething anger. He could have killed Sherlock for putting them in danger like that, but instead he was stuck playing nursemaid to a reluctant patient.

He had half a mind to leave Sherlock to his own devices, but then who knew what would happen?

With a long-suffering sigh, John watched the water fill the basin, steam thickening the air above. Already, he could feel the heat from the water seeping through his wet clothes, and he let it calm him a bit. He needed to get out of these wet clothes. He’d be better of traipsing around the flat naked than wearing these things. For a moment, he pondered leaving them on until he could verify that Sherlock was doing what he asked, but then, what was the point? They were about to be naked and submerged in close quarters anyway.

So, he peeled them off as quickly as he could. The air against his skin was a shock at first, raising fresh goosepimples--he hadn’t thought more could form--until the remaining water evaporated.

“Sherlock,” he called through the door. “Have you started the tea?”

It didn’t seem possible that John would be able to hear a dramatic sigh through the door, but he could have sworn he heard one anyway. “Of course I have.”

John was quite certain at that moment that he heard the kitchen tap running, but he chose to ignore it. If Sherlock was only just now following John’s instructions, at least he was doing it. Even if he was probably still sloshing around in his wet clothes.

John paced the bathroom, waiting for the bath to fill, waiting for Sherlock to return with the promised tea. The steam curled in dainty tendrils, calling to him like sirens in the sea, and finally he though, _fuck it. I’m getting in._

He sank into the overly hot water, his skin turning pink almost immediately, but still, bone deep he felt cold, like baked Alaska. Like fried ice cream. He giggled at the thought, oddly elated by the heat. Besides, the comparison wasn’t entirely accurate as the water wouldn’t even cover his legs yet.

Speaking of which, how the hell were they supposed to both fit in here? John tried to fold up his legs to fit himself into only one half of the tub. He pulled them up to his chest; he crossed his legs into a pretzel shape, and he tucked his feet underneath him. The last might have worked, but it would have also left him with most of his body out of the water.

He might have come up with a solution at some point, but before he could, Sherlock waltzed in with two mugs, the tag from a tea bag hanging from the edge of each one.

“I didn’t wait for them to steep.” Sherlock handed one to John and set the other on the edge of the sink. He was still almost fully dressed. The only item he had removed was his suit jacket. The light grey shirt had been rendered translucent by the water, and John could see the dark outline of Sherlock’s areolae.

John’s breath caught, and he coughed, turning his attention to the spread of brown in his mug. He grabbed the string attached to the bag and bobbed it in the water. It was, after all, very important to make sure his tea was steeped correctly. Much more important than watching his flatmate peel wet cloth from his skin.

Despite his best efforts, John could sense the cloth pulling away from Sherlock’s skin. He could hear the sound of breaking suction even over the rushing water. Surely, he was just imagining those sounds. He couldn’t have possibly heard something so quiet over the running tap, but that didn’t much matter. It was still loud in his ears as he caught sight of bare skin in his periphery.

After a rush of dark fabric in the corner of his eye, he heard a slap of bare feet against the floor, and then Sherlock’s exposed calf entered his field of vision. John pulled his legs up as close to his body as he could as Sherlock stepped into the water.

His eyes must have been as big as dinner plates as he stared at Sherlock’s knees. He didn’t dare look up any farther, but that didn’t much matter either because the next thing he knew, Sherlock was sinking down into the water. John was stuck watching parting thighs give way to groin, and bollocks, and cock, which to his surprise was not entirely flaccid.

That was just excess blood flow caused by nerves, right?

As Sherlock’s arse settled against the porcelain, he asked, “Are we going to keep that running?”

“What?” John asked, his eyes darting to Sherlock’s eyes from where they had been fixated on Sherlock’s bare chest.

Sherlock took a gulp from his own mug, grimacing. “The water. Unless part of your plan is to flood the flat.”

“No,” John said, pushing up to his knees and then sinking straight back down as his cock broke the water’s surface. “Of course not.”

“May I?” Sherlock reached behind himself. “Or are you going to yell at me for that, too?”

John rolled his eyes, trying to submerge himself as much as possible without invading Sherlock’s space. “Just turn it off.”

With the water off, it was far too quiet. John could hear the minute ripples in the water as they shifted against slick porcelain. There really wasn’t enough room in here for the both of them, and the exhaustion was quickly catching up. His hamstrings had started to protest their position, compelling him to straighten his legs, but each time they relaxed even a fraction, John’s toes collided with body parts he didn’t want to ponder. It could have been a foot. It could have been a thigh. He didn’t really want to examine the possibilities. Never mind that variations on this situation had passed in and out of his fantasy repertoire several times.

“Bugger,” Sherlock warbled, and John’s gaze snapped to Sherlock’s face, yanking him from his reverie. Sherlock shuddered uncontrollably as he pressed the pad of his thumb to his teeth, wincing.

“What happened?”

“I knocked the mug”--a shiver ran through him, stopping his speech--”on my teeth.”

John laid his palm over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock dropped his hand from his mouth into the water. “Fine.”

John scrutinized Sherlock’s shaking body. “I might believe that about your teeth, but you’re not fine. Come here.”

John scooted as close as he could to the back edge of the bath, throwing one leg over the side, and he gestured Sherlock towards him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at John from over a raised chin. “What are you doing?”

“You need to warm up. If you lie against me, we can share body heat, and you can get more of your body in the water.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms tight against himself, harumphing. “I’m fine.”

“Look at you. You’re shaking like a leaf. You’re not fine.”

“I wasn’t shaking until I got in this bath.”

“And that was more worrying than you shaking now.” John beckoned Sherlock again. “Now get over here before I make you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he turned around and scooted towards John. “Honestly. Why do you insist on the dramatics?”

John huffed a laugh, arranging his legs until they could bracket Sherlock’s waist without getting pinned against the side of the tub. He made quite a nice John pretzel if he did say so himself. “Oh, I’m the dramatic one, am I?”

“Obviously.”

John chuckled, giving Sherlock’s biceps a vigorous rubdown. “You’ll thank me when you’re crawling into your nice, warm, comfortable bed instead of lying cocooned in heat packs connected to an IV in a sterile hospital bed.”

Sherlock slid down, submerging most of his torso in the water, and rested his head on John’s chest. “Perhaps.”

“You must be impaired for you to actually concede the point.”

Sherlock shuddered again, but his body seemed to finally be settling down. “I did no such thing.”

John kept rubbing the heels of his hands into Sherlock’s shoulders and chest, encouraging blood flow to the body parts still peeking out of the hot water. John could feel the tension seeping from Sherlock’s body as the heat seeped in, and finally, the shivers settled, leaving the bathroom eerily quiet once more. John could hear his breath ruffle the hairs on Sherlock’s crown, the subtle slosh of water against the side of the tub as their bodies shifted.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” John said, cracking the silence like an eggshell.

Sherlock crossed his heart. “I promise to never jump into the Thames in January.”

“Or any other body of water in cold weather.”

“What about a heated swimming pool?”

John squeezed Sherlock’s biceps, harder than he had been, enough to leave quickly fading red fingerprints on Sherlock’s skin, which was actually reassuring. “I’m serious. I swear to God, Sherlock. If you put me through that again, I’ll kill you. I’ll bring you back to life so I can kill you.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Duly noted.”

“I’m not joking.”

At that, Sherlock tilted his head back, his cheek to John’s chest, and looked in his eyes. “I know.”

Sherlock’s expression was startling, and it was all John could do not to tense up at the intensity of it. It was so, for lack of a better term, sincere. He looked small, vulnerable, and John was overcome with the need to shelter Sherlock, protect him. Not that he didn’t feel that way most of the time when Sherlock felt the need to constantly put himself in dangerous situations, but this was different.

Sherlock’s pupils were wide in the weak light of the fixture above the sink. His eyelids floated up and down, and John found himself mirroring, his breaths slow and even. Everything seemed to slow down, making him feel calm and heavy. It wasn’t until Sherlock’s lips brushed his that he realized what was happening, but with that bit of contact, time came rushing back to normal speed.

He flinched.

Whatever had caused time to slow in Sherlock’s eyes hit the fast forward button, making his eyelids flutter and his expression shutter. His body stiffened. For one protracted moment, they froze, eyes locked in each other. John knew he should do something, encourage or reject, but his own surprise left him paralyzed. He knew what he wanted--he had known for years--but he also knew there were reasons why he hadn’t pursued it. What were those again?

“I’m…” Sherlock paused, his arms tensing under John’s hands. “I apolog--”

John’s tongue cut off Sherlock’s speech, invading his mouth like a conquistador. His hand bracketed Sherlock’s jaw, holding it in place for the assault, but it quickly became clear that was far from necessary. Sherlock used his whole body to press into the kiss, his heels squeaking against the porcelain as they lost traction in the water. He gripped John’s knees, pushing against them until John felt he couldn’t take a breath, though whether that was from the pressure of Sherlock’s body or the thrill of the touch, he couldn’t say.

His hand slid down Sherlock’s throat, caressing until Sherlock stopped pushing, until he succumbed to the rhythm of it. Their bodies rocked in the ebbing tide caused by Sherlock’s flailing, making John’s half-hard cock slide against the small of Sherlock’s back. It sent a thrill of arousal up his spine, and this time, he knew the shudder wasn’t caused by the cold.

Sherlock’s pulse thrummed under John’s index finger and thumb, resting over the carotid, and he pressed in just enough to feel it properly. He hadn’t expected a reaction from Sherlock, hadn’t even contemplated his own actions enough to consider it, so he jumped when Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth and pressed his neck into John’s touch, arching it like a Renaissance martyr. John wouldn’t exert any more pressure, especially with Sherlock in his current state, but just the trust that Sherlock put in him in that moment hit him like a ton of bricks. He felt dirty, like a devil taking advantage of a poor, young innocent, and he enjoyed the feeling much more than he’d have thought.

But, no matter how thrilling the thought, it was one for another day. John let his hand stray from Sherlock’s throat, down his chest, fingertips toying with a piqued nipple. Sherlock whined, making John’s hips kick forward, his cock straining into the contact, throbbing in the heat. The thrill was not to last, however, as the reason for the whine became clear.

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand, pulling it towards his neck. “Do it, John.”

John shook his head, making their stubble rub like sandpaper. “This isn’t the time.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but once again, John’s tongue cut him off. And, if that hadn’t worked, the hand snaking its way down his torso to his cock probably would have.

Sherlock gasped, arching into the contact. The lines of his body were stunning, and John was once again reminded of artwork.

“I’m surprised at you,” John murmured, rocking in counterpoint to Sherlock’s hips.

“That I’m into choking? I-- oh, God-- I wouldn’t have peg--” Sherlock broke off into a grunt, his lips pressed tight together.

“Please, complete your thought,” John said, feeling smug. But then, Sherlock’s hips pressed into his touch, rolling Sherlock’s body against his. “Christ, you feel so good.”

It took several long moments for Sherlock to speak again, not that John was complaining. His body felt incredible under John’s hands, against his chest, his lips, his cock. Sherlock needn’t ever speak again if it meant John could enjoy this feeling. He felt he could stay in this bathtub forever if it meant Sherlock would move against him like that. Even the water sloshing over the side didn’t bother him. If that were the cost for this experience, he would pay it ten times over.

“I didn’t have you pegged as such a prude,” Sherlock finally said, the words rushing out on a single gust of breath.

“Actually,” John said after his own pause, “the choking makes a certain amount of sense when I think about it. I didn’t think you wanted any of it.”

“Do you still?” Sherlock asked with a nip to John’s jaw.

“God, no.” John’s lips dragged against Sherlock’s, capturing them once again until they were both breathless, Sherlock’s body shaking in John’s grip.

Sherlock broke away first, the skin above his nose ridged in concentration, his mouth wide around gasping breaths. His hands gripped the edge of the tub, his knuckles white.

“You’re close, aren’t you, love?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, grunting out his lack of ability to verbalize.

“Go on. Come for me.”

Sherlock groaned, pushing up into John’s grip, bracing his feet on the end of the tub. “Again.”

“Come for me.”

And finally, one foot slipping up the porcelain and thumping into the wall, Sherlock spilled over the edge. His cock throbbed and jumped in John’s hand, and it was the sexiest thing John had experienced in a long time. He only wished he had a mind palace of his own to store this moment in. Sherlock, the great brain, completely given over to his body, beyond speech or sarcasm, an angel fallen to earth.

John stroked Sherlock through his orgasm, only releasing him when his body collapsed against John’s, limp and boneless, only the rapid rise and fall of his chest displaying any signs of life. John’s own arousal simmered in his gut, but he could easily put it on a back burner to enjoy six feet of pliant consulting detective draped across him. It could wait.

 


End file.
